


Carved

by AllThatMatters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Gay, M/M, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatMatters/pseuds/AllThatMatters
Summary: After being discovered by Kash, Mickey remembers needing a moment to panic, to think, and decide.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 13
Kudos: 76





	Carved

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small, one-shot piece based on what I imagine happened after Kash discovered Ian and Mickey together in the store in S1E9. It is told from Mickey's current perspective.  
> Also, this tiny, little story is dedicated to Carrot on her birthday!

Mickey remembered running; he remembered the burning sensation in his muscles that were screaming by the time he had rounded the corner and squeezed quickly between the opening in that chain-link fence, finally slowing his pace as he strolled across the snow-covered baseball diamond and stepped down into the dugout; he remembered pacing his way back and forth along the benches, with his hands on his hips as his chest heaved in the cold – as his mind raced.

He had been stupid, and he had been careless; nobody was ever supposed to find out, let alone _see_ – see what he was and what he did with Ian behind closed doors; but then, somebody had – and not just anyone, Mickey remembered – Kash. What had made it worse somehow – if that had even been possible – was that Kash was the only other person that had ever had Ian in the same ways that he himself had – at that point in time, at least – and Mickey had almost hated himself as much as he had hated that fucking man – hated that fucking man for being able to say for the rest of his miserable life that he had had Ian first; hated him for even thinking about laying hands on Ian in the first place; but then again, he had hated that little fact about himself as well.

Back then, at least.

Mickey had turned, slamming an errant fist into the brick wall, and he remembered hearing a knuckle crack at the impact as pain shot up a nerve and he hissed.

“Fuck!” he’d screamed, turning, shaking his tingling hand as he tried to get the feeling to return – not just to his fingers but to his chest, which had been completely empty and numb since Kash had opened that door and laid eyes on them.

The sun had been setting, and Mickey had wanted nothing more than to go home, get warm, and hide himself away from the world. Mickey remembered that he had wanted to never lay eyes on Ian Gallagher again, because maybe that way he could have changed somehow – like maybe taking the temptation away could have made him…different.

A group of kids had strolled onto the field then – collars turned up to the wind – and Mickey had stepped back into the shadows, watching them as they laughed their way across the diamond, past third base, before disappearing out the other side and he was once again alone, which he hadn’t felt he had been in a while – not since Ian had strolled into his room with a tire iron, anger and fear mingled together on his face.

Mickey hadn’t had friends like that – like that group of kids – and he had never really cared much about it; until the day he had seen Ian – had _really_ seen him – and something about him – about that red hair and those freckles – had flipped a switch deep inside his soul, and Mickey had wanted his attention; he hadn’t cared if it was good attention or bad attention really, he just wanted Ian to look at him; but he had figured bad attention was better, because it would keep him out of Ian’s gazes – hidden in the shadows, like he was so prone to being – like he was at the moment.

Mickey remembered stepping up out of the dugout then, shoving his freezing hands into his pockets as the temperature continued to drop, and fingering the silver switchblade inside as he went towards the bleachers and strolled wearily up the steps, taking them two at a time until he was at the top row, and he shuffled his way down, hiding himself away at the very end, out of sight.

Taking his pocket knife out, he had flipped it open – metal shining in the fading glow of late afternoon – and the panic in his head had finally begun to slow, ebbing away into near-nothingness, which had only allowed for more erratic and scary thoughts to suddenly push their way in: What if Kash told Terry? What if Kash told _anyone_? What if Mickey had to stop seeing Ian because he couldn’t possibly allow Ian to find out that he actually _meant_ something to him…

No, Mickey remembered thinking that Ian could never know that – he could never know that Mickey had actually _cared_ about things, which he had – _of course he had_ ; he may have been South Side trash, but he _was_ still human; he had just never expected to care as much as he did.

No, _nobody_ could know that – not back then; nobody could know the way the heart within his chest had squeezed when he saw Ian’s face when he’d walked through the door of his own home, his sister’s legs up in his lap as they sat studying on the couch – which had made him jealous; or the way he gave up all fight – all sense of toughness and control – when Ian took his clothes off.

Mickey’s dad would have killed him – probably still would – if he had known those things; but he _really_ would have killed him if he knew that Mickey had never once gone to the Kash and Grab to simply wreak havoc and make his old man proud; he had gone to see Ian – to steal his heart as much as anything else on those shelves – and it was only when Ian wasn’t around – wasn’t working like he had expected him to be – that Mickey had lashed out more than he meant to, the anger he’d had at his needs, his wants, his jealousy, and his expectations getting the better of him, because he hadn’t known what else to do; hadn’t known how else deal with his feelings.

No, if people had known, they would have killed him – Mickey had been sure of it; but Ian wouldn’t have killed him – Ian _hadn’t_ killed him when he’d found out; he had made love to him instead, because he was the same; together, they had nothing to hide from each other – they had had no secrets. Ian had simply opened himself up to him, automatically taking his place behind him – in all ways; Ian had had his back then, and Mickey remembered hoping that maybe he always would.

Nobody had ever done that to Mickey before – or since; falling in love with Ian Gallagher had been easy, as if it was always supposed to be Ian, Mickey had just been asleep, waiting.

The bleachers had been dusty, but Mickey remembered leaning forward then as the sun began to set at the early winter hour, eyeing the weathered wood of the bench beside him and wiping it gently with his hand to avoid splinters before pressing the tip of his knife to it, and beginning to carve. It was – and maybe still is – the corniest thing Mickey Milkovich had ever done, but the memory still tugged at his heart strings.

Carving his own initials had been easy, the _MM_ simple and straightforward; but the _G_ had been a pain in his ass, and he had cursed under his breath a few times, the knife nearly slipping from his trembling grasp more than once as he tried to curve it around to the proper shape.

Mickey still hadn’t been sure then what he was going to do, but he remembered he had still been tossing around that errant, most horrible idea of never seeing Ian again – in fact, he had been leaning towards it as the sun disappeared, the sounds of sirens echoing their way throughout the evening air as they always did.

But then, Mickey had finished, and as he had stared down at the _MM + IG_ etched permanently into that seat, he had made up his mind; because despite what he had wanted – despite how hard he had fought against it – Ian Gallagher was carved into his heart then just as much as their initials were in that godforsaken wood; so tucking the switchblade back into his pocket, Mickey had stood, his resolve hardening as his breath began to puff out in front of him – the temperature dipping towards freezing – and headed back down the steps towards home; but he wouldn’t stay at home for long; he was only going to grab his coat – to compose himself and the thoughts within his head – before heading back to the Kash and Grab; because Kash needed to know that he wasn’t going to give Ian up, and that he didn’t scare him in the least; he needed Ian to know that he was still there despite everything, and that he always would be, even if he wasn’t able to admit that – not just then.

~

Mickey intertwined his fingers with Ian’s then as they walked past the baseball field in the summer sun, and he knew that although they were a little faded now, those initials were still there, keeping watch over first base; you could find them if you tried – if you knew where to look; and Mickey _did_ know.

He thought maybe he’d show his husband one day, just so Ian would know that it had always been forever for him - forever since the beginning.

But not just yet.


End file.
